


just like these memories i can't undo

by Lire_Casander



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Drunken Confessions, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 07:36:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19291186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: i need you here to be a light, star in the sky brighten up my night, sometimes I need the dark to see





	just like these memories i can't undo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estel_willow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estel_willow/gifts).



> Written for Hannah's prompt over at tumblr: _i don’t know what the fuck true love even is but i do want to hang out with you for basically the rest of my life. (let’s hang out - TO THE DEATH)_. My dear, I really really really hope you like this. It's taken me forever to finish it, I got distracted and then I didn't know what to do with it. But, as always, just talking to you inspires me. Enjoy!
> 
> I own nothing except my mistakes. Title and summary taken from _Hold Onto You_ by Griffin Peterson. 
> 
> Infinite thanks to [InsidiousIntent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insidiousintent) for the great work at beta-reading what most likely looked like a plotline written by a teenager high on sugar.

There are no answers on the bottom of the upteenth beer bottle Michael’s drunk tonight. He’s been searching for motives, for reasons, for a meaning to everything that’s happened in the past weeks – months, now – but he doesn’t find a rhyme to the songs playing in his head. There are no tricks to bring back whatever attempt at normalcy he might have made in the past.

This is his life now.

Maria looks at him with pity in her eyes and a fathomless pain he knows is all on him. He doesn’t understand why she still lets him enter the bar, after everything he's put her through – the lies and the lonely nights, the fights and the kisses that wouldn't make up for a broken heart and a soul shredded to pieces, all scattered on the floor of what used to be his life. 

"I think that’s enough drinking for tonight, Guerin," she says softly, cloth in her hand as she stops cleaning the bar. "Go home. I'll call you a cab."

He shakes his head, and the motion makes his brain swim in unknown seas of alcohol-induced hallucinations. "Don'wanna," comes out of his mouth, sounds crushed just as much as his soul is crushed. 

"You can't sleep here again," she reminds him gently. "This has to stop."

"No," he manages, tightening his grip on the bottle when she tries to take it from him. "No. No home for me," he drawls, every syllable taking its toll by the way his tongue flickers inside his mouth. 

"I'll be his ride home," says a voice at his back, a hand tossing a couple of bills on the counter. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t fight the fingers grabbing his arm and pulling him upwards awkwardly. Michael ends up smashed against Alex’s side, face seeking the comfort of his warm neck; he bonelessly drapes himself over Alex, hands drunkenly missing the broad shoulders and settling awkwardly on top of Alex’s belt. He hums, halfway passed out on Alex. He looks up briefly from his spot to watch the scene unfolding on his behalf.

"You can't keep doing this forever, Alex," Maria repeats, grimace in place of her usual bright smile. "Someday-" 

"I'll cross that bridge when I get there," Alex cuts her sharply, breath short as he balances Michael's weight on his left side. 

"You mean you'll burn it, right?" she points out, cloth forgotten on the bar. "That's all you've been doing for months now."

"I didn't burn this one, did I?" Alex replies, voice low and steady, although Michael can hear an undertone of resentment clear even to his hazed mind. “These should cover for his tab so far,” Alex gestures vaguely toward the counter where the money glares up at them. He begins walking away, all but dragging Michael with him across the bar, feet sweeping the floor as Alex lunges forward, determination straight in every fiber of his body.

Michael can feel his whole being alight with fire just from the sparks created where his skin is touching Alex.

They reach Alex’s car – black SUV replacing the Humvee he returned when he accepted his honorable discharge – and Michael all but crawls to the passenger door when Alex maneuvers around him to get the car open. He feels dizzy, and the scent floating around – a mix between pine car freshener, clothes softener and _Alex_ – isn’t helping him to find his inner center and focus on it. Everything spins, chaos surrounding him and echoing inside; he feels cold when Alex’s hand releases him to buckle him in place before Alex himself walks to the driver’s side and gets in, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Michael tilts his head to the right, his brain crashing into the walls of his skull and giving him the worst headache he’s had in a long time, and he’s not even hungover _yet_.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Alex grits out, his right hand gripping the steering wheel with such force that his knuckles turn white.

“Not looking,” Michael slurs. He needs to find balance, so he chooses to let his head rest against the window, but he doesn’t measure his own force and his skull totters against the glass with a loud _thud_. “Ouch,” he yelps, attempting to soothe the pain with shaky fingers. His hand lands everywhere but on the right spot, and he mumbles a complaint in a language that doesn’t even sound like English to him.

“Here, let me,” Alex sighs again, leaning over the shift and into Michael’s personal space. He massages the scalp and Michael can’t help the low moan that the motions elicit in him. Alex recoils almost instantly, as if bitten by a wild animal. “I-Let’s get you back home,” he says with a slight tremor in his voice, eyes trained back on the path ahead of them as he drives them away from the Wild Pony. Michael didn’t have the strength to put up a fight and ask why Alex has reacted as if Michael had sucker-punched him. Instead, he rests his cheek against the glass, managing to keep himself half upright against the inside of the door without causing major damage to his already beaten body. He even drifts into a fitful slumber, and he opens his eyes when the car screeches to a halt and Alex is mumbling some nonsense under his breath.

“Whut?” Michael asks, completely disoriented and still more than a bit worse for wear.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

“Wise words, Private,” Michael says, shaking his head to clear it from the haze and the clouds. “Care to share it with me?”

Alex scoffs. “Drop it, Guerin,” he retorts curtly. “You’re too gone, and you won’t remember any of this in the morning.”

“I will,” he says, stubborn and fierce through his drunkenness. Alex doesn’t seem to agree with him, if the force with which he’s pulling him across the gravel and into the Airstream is anything to go by. “Hey, lemme! Can walk ‘nmy own.”

“Yeah, sure,” Alex mutters, fumbling with the door knob until he manages to turn it and the door flies open. He tugs at Michael, who’s once again toppled over Alex in a boneless heap of heat, and together they cross the tiny threshold. "What the actual _fuck_ happened to your trailer?" he cries out when the light fills the emptiness after he's turned it on. 

Michael's eyes need a second to adjust to the light before widening as he takes in the sight in front of him and he remembers the reasons why the Airstream looks like a tornado has blown through it. 

The newspaper clips that used to block the windows are spread throughout every surface in sight. The cabinets are open and their contents are scattered on the floor, broken glasses and cracked dishes and even one of the frames Isobel had given to him so long ago, all crushed to dust. Michael feels a little bit sober as his mind supplies the memories of the despair and the fright and the guilt that fueled his impromptu battle against anything that reminded him of Alex. 

He trashed the whole Airstream before heading out to the bar and getting trashed himself. 

He’d woken up alone in his bed yet again, the daze of a dream lingering in the back of his mind as he gained consciousness. He’d hoped to find a warm body beside him on the mattress, both entangled like he’d dreamed of, but the moment he opened his eyes, the mirage was gone. Alone and lonely, Michael had allowed his powers to overcome him, and afterwards he hopped out and went to the only place he now identifies as home, even after the whole disaster that him dating Maria, even after losing everything else, had turned out to be.

Alex is moving into the trailer, leaving Michael propped against the metal sheet wall, carefully clearing the way to the bunk, muttering under his breath with words that don’t reach Michael’s ears. Michael was too busy trying to make the world stop spinning, but as he watches Alex coming back to get him, a rush of affection washes over him – not quite powerful enough to sober him up and make him _functional_ , but it clears his mind a little bit so he can identify the need to reach out and stop Alex in his fretting with a hand around his wrist – the need to draw patterns on a skin he used to know by heart..

He’s been running from that truth for months now, because it was easier to drown himself in alcohol and acetone than to admit his feelings were tied up in both fire and desire.

Michael tries to take a step forward, realizing his mistake when his weight turns out to be too much for his drunken self. He can’t even use his powers for balance, he’s too far gone, so he braces himself for a fall that might end up with his face plastered against the floor, when Alex’s strong arms wrap around his shoulders and steady him. Michael shakes his head, the drowsiness only increasing. “Lemme,” he protests, attempting to wiggle his arms free from where Alex was keeping him in place. Alex allows him the pretense of trying to walk alone toward his cot, but it lasts Michael a couple of seconds before he’s once again stumbling over his two feet on a perfectly smooth surface, now that Alex has managed to clear the floor from shards and debris.

“Will you let me help you?” Alex says gently, although there’s an edge of impatience in his words. That’s all Michael needs to snap, drunken haze be damned, because he’s had enough of _whatever_ it is going on between them right now.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out of it at first. He works his jaw, swallows hard, and tries again, words slurred. “You don’t have any right to spoil all the fun I was having at the Pony.” Alex seems to want to cut him off, but Michael frowns and growls lowly, and Alex refrains from speaking up. Instead, he nudges at Michael until his calves hit the side of the bed. “It was a great night, on my own with my beer, until you showed up. I don’t need saving, Alex. I was doing a great job at-”

“At what exactly, Guerin?” Alex finally interrupts. “At drinking until you pass out on the floor _again_?”

“I don’t need your help! I can take care of myself. I was having some fun, and I could drive here by myself, when I was done having fun!” Michael doesn’t know where the bitterness is coming from, since all he’s ever wanted is for Alex to actually _care_.

He is a sour drunk, after all.

“Well, excuse me for trying to keep you alive,” Alex counteracts as he keeps pushing Michael over to the bed.

“You’re not my fucking savior, Alex,” Michael manages to say, barely above a whisper, all strength drained from him after his tirade.

“I know I’m not. I never tried to be,” Alex confesses, looking sad and defeated from where Michael is standing. “I just can’t see you hurting, knowing it’s all my fault.” He pushes Michael gently onto the bed, and Michael lands on his back. His head is still spinning and aching, and he has a sudden need to close his eyes and make the trailer stop spinning.

He talks instead.

“I’m not hurting,” Michael denies, hands stretched before him in an attempt to reach Alex, but he remains out of reach hovering above the bunk. “And it’s not your fault.”

“You won’t think the same in the morning,” Alex finally says, shaking his head slightly. “Sleep, Michael. Tomorrow you’re going to have one hell of a hangover.” He turns around to leave.

“Stay,” Michael pleads, and he doesn’t know who’s more surprised – himself, propped on an elbow on his cot, or Alex, who spun around with a wild and undecipherable look in his chocolate eyes. “Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Why?” Alex manages to ask. He isn’t closing his distance to the bed, but he’s not moving toward the door. Michael attempts a shrug that turns into a grimace.

“Just-please stay.”

Michael watches as Alex seems to war with himself on his spot, standing tall and fierce and all shades of miserable if Michael is reading him right. He’s too drunk to actually know for sure – then again, it’s been a while since he’s been able to have a look at Alex and just _know_ what’s going on in his head.

“Sleep, Michael,” he finally surrenders, stepping closer to the cot. Michael shudders at the use of his given name, so scarcely heard from Alex’s lips that he revels in it. “I’ll be here in the morning.” He doesn’t sit down on the mattress, taking one of the plastic chairs instead and flopping down on it. Michael closes his eyes, and when he hears the metallic scratch of a prosthetic against the floor, he sighs. Drifting to sleep is never easy for him, but knowing he isn’t alone on this anniversary makes the slumber less of a hardship.

Michael dreams of flames and fire, of fear and guilt. His is a restless sleep, tossing and turning in the narrow bed, flailing while lost in the deep world of missing everything he never thought he’d have. His hands hit the thin wall, the counter over the bunk, but he doesn’t stop until he reaches unconsciously for the plastic chair and lands his hand on air. He is alert, out of the nightmare of bombs and smoke and _death_ , with a pounding headache that can compete against a stampede and win. He cracks his eyes open, feeling as though he hasn’t slept for long although the light’s already seeping in through the dirty blinds in the Airstream. 

Alex is nowhere to be found. For a moment Michael panics thinking that he’s hallucinated the whole exchange from the night before; when he catches sight of the abandoned plastic chair in the middle of the space, he panics thinking that Alex has snuck out in the middle of the night because he can’t stomach being near Michael the broody drunk. His attempt at sitting up on the mattress is met with a rebuke from his aching head, and he lifts a hand to his temple. He feels sweaty and running even hotter than usual. He didn’t shrug off his shirt before Alex had shoved him onto the bed, so his clothes are sticking to his skin while the sheets pool in a mess slightly below his waist. Michael doesn’t have a mirror in the Airstream, but he’s sure that his curls are plastered against his nape and on his forehead. He frowns.

“You’re already awake,” comes a voice from the door that Michael hasn’t noticed is ajar. He squints his eyes against the sun rays framing one silhouette he learned by heart when younger – a silhouette he can’t forget even if he wills himself to. “How are you feeling?”

Michael huffs. “Like I was run over by my truck.”

Alex laughs heartily, stepping into the trailer. Michael can see now that he’s holding two paper cups, the smell of recently brewed coffee filling the cramped space. “It’s how you should feel,” he says as he stops besides the bunk. “I got you coffee,” he offers. There’s a glint in his eyes that speaks of fear and grief; Michael wishes he could kiss the frown knitting Alex’s brows together away. Instead, he takes the paper cup from Alex’s hand and grips it tightly with uneasy fingers.

“Why?” he simply asks Alex, who’s still standing awkwardly with another coffee quickly cooling off. There’s so much in that one word – more than a question, it’s a cruel reminder of where they stand within each other; it’s an anguished plea for help, under the rain of regretful tears he’s never been too shy to share with Alex.

Alex sighs, and Michael fights the need to smooth the lines that mar his face, the urge to kiss the scar above his right eye. He watches as Alex sinks into the plastic chair again, silent. He presses on, “Why do you keep doing this, Alex?” He’s talking through gritted teeth, his brain colliding against the walls of his skull as if it’s swimming blindly. “You don’t have to save me. I don’t need saving.”

“ _Michael_ ,” comes out a pained sigh. It’s been now twice that Alex has pronounced his name instead of _Guerin_ , and although Michael is ready to admit just how it leaves his skin tingling in all the right places, he knows now is not the time to point it out. He still needs answers – he needs to understand whether he has a chance at whatever it is they’ve been skirting around for almost a year. Alex rubs his free hand against his face, shaking his head. He looks so vulnerable.

When Alex looks up, locking eyes with him, he sees the exhaustion from one too many blank nights making sure there was a glass of water next to the cot. He sees the pain from wearing the prosthetic way too long under Michael’s weight as Alex carried him all the way back to the truck. He sees the fire from Caulfield blazing through a heart that Michael’s once called _his_.

“Say it,” Michael presses on. He needs to hear it from Alex’s lips, in that rich voice that calms him and quiets his otherwise chaotic mind.

“I don’t know why, okay?” Alex bursts, bluntly raking a hand through his hair, long strands caught in between his fingers. “I just _feel_ I have to do it, even if you’ve made crystal clear you don’t want to have anything to do with me!”

“When have I-” Michael trails off when a wave of desperation hits him. “Alex,” he breathes instead, unconsciously reaching out to grab Alex’s arm, but he’s too far away from Michael. “I’ve never wanted us to be broken.” 

“You did a great job out of it when you began dating my best friend,” Alex deadpans. He looks away, and Michael has to tame down the sudden urge to stand up and take Alex in his arms.

“I just-I didn’t think I’d be what you needed, back then,” Michael tries to explain.

“If that’s your way of saying that _I_ wasn’t what you needed, Guerin,” Alex warns him. His last name feels like a slap with a wet, open hand in Michael’s face. It _hurts_. “I told you I loved you, and you ran off to Maria, of all people. And yet here I am, bringing you home when you’re too drunk to function, because I don’t even know how to _not_ be close to you!”

“Alex,” Michael says, finally tossing aside the sheets and standing up, as close to Alex as possible without actually touching him. “I’m sorry. I never should have acted that way.” HIs headache is receding, and he’s able to think more properly now. “I’m sorry I hurt you. It was never my intention. I _love_ you.”

It’s the first time he’s said that out loud, and it feels oddly exhilarating. Freeing in a way he hasn’t felt ever since his blood boiled up in a bonfire of shame and love. He loves Alex, always has. He even told Isobel that he probably always will.

It was about damn time he told Alex.

“Then why did you look away?” Alex accuses. There are tears in his chocolate eyes, tears that burden Michael’s soul as he silently bears witness to Alex’s coming undone in front of him. “How could you, when you promised? You _promised_ and I waited and I waited and you didn’t come and I thought, I _thought_. It was your blood, and I thought you were-you were,” Alex can’t say the word, instead wiping away the few tears that have dared to roll down. “You said you’d never really look away, and you left me hanging, and somehow I thought it was my fault. I’d pushed you too far, I wasn’t ready, and then you were gone, and Max was _dead_ and we didn’t-”

“I didn’t think love would be enough,” he cuts Alex off. “I didn’t know back then that I can’t run from true love.” Michael waits a beat until he sees realization dawning on Alex. “I never look away, Alex. I never did, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.”

He watches as Alex digests his words. He smiles softly when Alex’s eyes go round and widen in realization, and in those irises Michael can see the whole universe struggling to get unleashed. 

Every glass inside the Airstream explodes in a million shards as Michael brands his lips on every patch of Alex’s skin.


End file.
